"Sufur-Dâr Khân of the Kingly House," he replied.
For the life of him Birbal could not resist another low swift question.
"And of the talisman he wears?"
The dull dark eyes held the alert ones.
"A common stone called smagdarite. If it pleases the Favoured-of-Kings, this Dust-born-Atom-in-a-Beam-of-Light resigns it."
Ye Gods! A rose-garden indeed! Birbal's bodily eyes saw the slender dark hand holding out the lustreless green stone, but his mind was lost in colour, beauty, perfume. Rose-leaves twined themselves into his brain, they sought his heart, their scent bewildered his soul, and faint and far off he seemed to hear a singing voice--
Who would have Musk of Roses must not touch the Rose.
Its scent is secret; only Heaven knows
How the sweet essence of a spirit grows.
"What now!" came Akbar's full imperious voice. "Must the King wait while Birbal dreams?"
The rose garden disappeared, for Birbal, taking it, thrust it hastily into his bosom, and then advanced toward the King with the brocaded bag.
"It is accepted," said the latter impatiently, signing away the offering, "the audience ends. Birbal, your arm. I lack air. This place is stifling."